


Do you love him?

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fluff, Head over heels and in denial, Hercules can read him like a book, Laurens is head over heels, M/M, Mentioned Marquis de Lafayette, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:15:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: Laurens likes Hercules. Likes watching Hercules. Likes watching Hercules do stuff.And maybe he blushes whenever Hercules compliments him, and his skin tingles whenever Herc touches him, and his body aches with want whenever they are apart too long.But Laurens doesn't love Hercules. (At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.)





	Do you love him?

 

Laurens peeks over the top of the book he is pretending to read, staring at the side profile of Hercules who is currently struggling to complete, by hand, some fancy stitch that Laurens can’t pronounce, but he’s sure Herc has repeated a million times. The word sounds a tiny bit French, like an American girl who spent a semester abroad and can’t stop talking about it. That’s what it sounds like when Hercules says it, anyway. But Laurens is always too busy focusing on the curve of Hercules’ lips than anything he’s saying in a potentially foreign language.

 

“Fuck!”

 

That’s definitely English, and the spots of blood blooming on the surface of the bleach-white cotton signal to Hercules that he’s failed in his task. Laurens shakes his head, hiding his blushing cheeks in the safety of the book’s pages as he smiles to himself. Hercules swears quite frequently, come to think of it. But never during sex. The words that leave that beautiful mouth are always warm and full of praise, that showers over Laurens; always a moan of _so so good_ and _so so beautiful_ and _my pretty boy_ muffled by Laurens’ skin. Hercules swears when he’s angry, mostly. The words fly from his lips like a bullet from the barrel of Laurens’ pistol. Quick and powerful, and deceptively destructive compared to their appearance. An angry Hercules can certainly clear a room. And Lafayette certainly knew how to provoke it.

 

“There are band-aids under the bathroom sink.”

 

Laurens says the words as he peeks over the top of the dust jacket, eyes following Herc’s movements as the tailor angrily stands upright, and begins to all but stomp away, presumably to the bathroom. Herc’s thumb is in his mouth, tongue lathing over the pinprick as he pauses to frown in Laurens’ direction. As though it’s a crime to keep band-aids under the sink. Laurens doesn’t need the silent judgement. He opens his mouth to defend his decision, because there’s no law against it, and anyway, who says band-aids _can’t_ go under the sink? Hercules rolls his eyes, he doesn’t wait for the presentation of any constitutional case, or the description of any judicial precedent; he just shakes his head and shuffles off in the direction of the bathroom.

 

“ _Jesus, I might actually be in love with him,"_ Laurens whispers the words to himself, feeling them out. They taste foreign and uncomfortable, but somehow right. Like an American girl never shutting up about a semester abroad, the words are natural, even if they’re reluctant to stand in full glory. His fingertips dig into the paperback’s cover, themselves shocked at the realization that Laurens is, in fact, in love with Hercules Mulligan.

 

“Of course you’re in love with me, you goof.” Hercules chuckles, leaning against the threshold.

“Did I say that out loud?” Laurens feels his cheek heat up and quickly raises the novel to cover his face, if only to prevent Hercules from teasing.

“No, but the fact that you love me is practically a given. I mean, you basically live here.”

 

Hercules isn’t wrong. This is where he considers home, and most of his clothes are here. It’s where he goes after every battle, when the ache in his ribs is too much to bear alone, when a brother in arms falls to the wayside and becomes another flag flown at half-mast. It’s where he celebrates every victory, when pride swells in his chest that they are one step closer to securing the nation. Come to think of it, it’s a wonder why Laurens still pays the rent for his apartment across town.

 

“Okay,” Laurens starts. And it’s how all his little white lies start: with hesitation. “But that’s because you’re closer to my favourite Starbucks.”

“You don’t even drink coffee! You like liquor and peanut butter!”

Laurens shrugs in a feeble attempt to play off his affections, still poorly hidden behind his book-shaped armour, “I’m a man of fine tastes.”

“...who’s been staring at me all afternoon.”

 

Hercules is observant. Laurens is sure of that. Hercules has an eye for detail. That’s a certainty; the Schuylers would have never employed anyone below Herc’s expert sartorial standard. The man could make a ball gown out of duct tape, winter gloves of embroidery thread and plastic, a patriot uniform of old linens. Any garment that had a name — and a few that didn’t — Hercules could sew, given material and enough time. So, it’s no wonder that Hercules was able to catch Laurens spying. But Laurens will deny it anyway:

“N—no, I haven’t.”

 

Hercules pushes off the edge of the doorframe, padding softly over to where Laurens has his feet kicked up on the sofa. Sensing Herc’s approach, he scrambles to sit up, snapping his book shut and waving it triumphantly in the air.

“I—I’ve been reading.”

 

Herc scoffs at that, settling down next to Laurens. He reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Laurens' wrist, pulling down so as to cradle Laurens’ alibi between them. Hercules leans in, gradually, so close that they’re almost touching, and Laurens does everything in his power not to giggle like a schoolgirl. When Herc next speaks, the words are soft, dancing like phantoms in the air, and Laurens is forced to focus on the tailor’s words, instead of the perfect curve of his lips.

 

“Well. Next time you wanna _read_ , ” Hercules says, and Laurens doesn’t have to _see_ Hercules to hear the smirk on his face. “You should try holding your book the right way up."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I can write anything sad ever again


End file.
